


Welcome to the Party

by bushlaboo



Series: Arrow Goes to the Movies [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, F/M, Hostage Situations, Implied Relationships, Inspired by a Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushlaboo/pseuds/bushlaboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Die Hard</em> inspired AU – Oliver Queen, an SCPD officer, tries to save his wife, Felicity Smoak, and several others, taken hostage by terrorist Edward Fyers during a Christmas party at Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles. [Borrowed some dialogue from the show and the movie; it was too good to pass up.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the Party

**Author's Note:**

> I need to take a moment and FLAIL over the fact that our captain made a _Die Hard_ reference over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/amellywood/status/631343638962769921) the other day. He really is perfect isn’t he?
> 
> I also need to thank the best internet wife and beta a girl could ever have, thank you so much Loke for dealing with my insanity and assuaging my fears; and for teasing me with your new endeavor. I am beyond excited to get my greedy eyeballs on it.

The uniform chaffed. It had been nearly a year of pulling desk and ceremonial duty and still it felt weird wearing the dark blue uniform day in and day out. Diggle had a standing invitation to reclaim his sergeant’s shield – and the ability to wear regular clothes – from his captain anytime he wanted it. Singh was a good man that way. He understood why he had put in for desk duty and unlike most of the folks in his division of the LAPD he never pushed him back towards his old role.

Dig knew he’d been on track to make lieutenant, if he ever did decide he was tired of riding the desk – and man was he – that opportunity was probably shot; he’d be considered a head-case. Advancement, if any, beyond sergeant wouldn’t be offered until he was near retirement age.

He’d joined the LAPD out of the Army, wanting to protect and serve closer to home.  He found that not only did he enjoy the meticulous work needed to investigate crime, but he was good at it. Or had been, until the worst night of his life – that dark, cold by LA standards, night when an overgrown thirteen-year-old with a toy gun realistic enough to fool him hadn’t listened to the warnings he and his partner shouted out. Dig had never been able to ask that young boy what possessed him to lift what appeared to be a live weapon and aim it at his partner. He’d acted on instinct, with the intent of save his partner’s life, and fired.

The boy died. The investigation cleared him and it had been written off by the brass as tragic but understandable mistake. It haunted him though, so much so, that the thought of having to draw his gun again sickened him. Instead of leaving desk duty after the investigation he requested to stay, and for the first few weeks people understood; months later, not so much. His old partner was pissed at him, his once shining star status within the police department was now dulled, and his brother was trying to talk him into joining his private security firm. “If you’re going to be riding a desk at least the pay will be better,” Andy insisted.

He talked it over with Lyla, his very pregnant wife was one of the few people who truly understood the place he found himself caught in. Dig didn’t just want to protect people who could afford it, but anyone who needed it. That’s why he’d been in the Army, and why, when he and Lyla wanted a more settled life he joined the LAPD. Of course riding the desk was not protecting anyone but himself, but until he was able to strap on his gun without breaking into a cold sweat he knew he could not risk being in the field.

He was almost grateful for the sad attempt at a joke the convenience store clerk made about cops and Twinkies. The double handful he’d grabbed were for Lyla; she’d been craving them for the last three weeks and had started comparing herself to a M1-A1 tank because she had padded on a few additional pounds in her last trimester. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, protruding baby bump or not. “They’re for my wife,” he grumbled. When the clerk shot him a skeptical look, Dig snagged the bag full of Twinkies and stated, “Donuts. It’s cops and donuts,” he corrected as he left the store.

He was just about to get into his cruiser when the call went out over the radio about an emergency at Nakatomi Plaza. He took a few steps back so he could look past the store and down the road to the building in question. From a distance everything looked fine, peaceful even as the lights on one of the top floors blazed red, green and white. Dig figured someone probably had too much to drink at the office Christmas party. He anticipated a quick in and out, he might even be able to snag a few keys to keep the inebriated folks from driving. The thought of actually being useful had him responding to the call, letting the dispatcher know that he would check it out.

Less than ten minutes later he was in over his head and he knew it. He hadn’t even gotten into the building; one of the security guards had greeted him at the door and explained that they were dealing with a computer malfunction. He’d stressed that they really needed to take care of it and the technical terminology thrown at him made his head hurt; everything appeared fine, apparently he couldn’t be of use and Lyla was waiting. He ignored the niggling feeling of unease and headed back to his car. He’d just turned the engine over when a body slammed into the hood. Before he could decide whether or not to get out of the car and check on the man, the security guards opened fire.

Dig threw the car into reverse and sped backwards, up and over the decorative retaining wall that separated the main portion of the plaza from the outside parking area. The back end of the car crashed hard into the pavement, causing the body to slide across the hood, but not off. The gun fire stopped.

He took a moment, to breath in and out deeply, as his eyes rose up the front of the building. Two floors above the party lights, he noticed one of the large skyscraper windows busted open and figure standing in the window, waving to get his attention.  “I see you buddy,” he muttered under his breath as he reached for his radio to call in his report.

\---

When he heard the call go out over the police radio Max Fuller jumped on it because he was good at knowing when a story, especially a big juicy story was about to break. His boss had argued that FDLA had already been recalled from that address and whatever might be going on at Nakatomi Plaza wasn’t newsworthy.

The reporter in him knew better, so he commandeered a news truck and cameraman and lit out with every intention of out-scooping every other news agency and winning his first Emmy.

\---

_One Hour Earlier_

The flight from Starling to LA was not a long one, but the need for it still bothered him. He hated living in a different city than Felicity. Husbands and wives were supposed to live together under the same roof, in the same bed. He knew Felicity would prefer that arrangement herself but her promotion required her to be in LA, at least for the first year. After the new division was setup there was possibility of her working out of Starling again. It was just a possibility which grated on Oliver's nerves.

Starling City was his home. He'd been born and raised there, and beyond his two years of wanderlust he'd spent his whole life there. His love for the city made him want to make it a better place, which is why he joined the police department. He had been two weeks shy of his promotion from beat cop when he’d stopped a purse snatcher and met Felicity Smoak. She had babbled her thanks to him, clutching the tablet that had been in her oversized bag to her breast like a beloved child. He’d been charmed by her manner and attracted to her soft, curved body and asked her out even though that was frowned upon.

Felicity had blinked her lovely blue eyes him, “You’re asking me out on a date? Like an _actual_ date? Like a _date_ -date?” Her flustered surprise had caused her to blush and the color on her cheeks pushed her from adorable in his mind to downright beautiful. Oliver had stumbled over his reply to her and she joked about being the one to talk in sentence fragments. They clicked into place after that and he went from casually dating a three other women to exclusively dating Felicity within a month, surprising his family and his best friend, Tommy.

He’d never been one for a serious monogamous relationship. In fact, the one time he tried to have one he’d failed miserably. It worked out best in the end though for Laurel, as he’d been truly committing himself to one woman for the first time, she and Tommy had finally taken the plunge and moved in together. Six months later when Tommy proposed, Oliver asked Felicity to move in with him. A year later, after watching the limo whisk the newlyweds off, he asked her to marry him. Felicity had crinkled her nose and teasingly asked, “You’re not trying to keep up with the Merlyns are you?”

In response he had pulled out the elegant but simple platinum wedding band he kept tucked safely in his pocket throughout the day. He’d purchased it over a month before, but with all the wedding craziness, he’d decided to hold off so as not to take the spotlight off of Tommy and Laurel. “They have nothing on us,” he whispered, slipping the band on her finger. Felicity had beamed up at him and proceeded to kiss him senseless before agreeing to marry to him.

He received a decent amount of ribbing for proposing with a wedding band, but Felicity loved it. Spending most of her day typing away at a computer she tended not to wear rings in general. “They rub and my fingers swell,” he remembered her saying when his sister asked why she didn’t wear any of the rings in her small, but tasteful jewelry collection. Though he offered to buy her an actual engagement ring, and his mother even offered his grandmother’s ring, she declined, telling them that: “I already have the perfect ring and the _best_ guy. I don’t need bling.”

Felicity had insisted on engraving their rings with their initials, a little arrow between them and a heart following. “I would have gone with binary code, but it never would have fit,” she’d teased admiring the intricate design within the bands. A few months later, they had the opposite of the lavish affair Tommy and Laurel’s wedding had been; a small, intimate afternoon ceremony with an English style tea for the reception, followed by a blissful week away where they had nothing but each other’s attention.

It was shortly after they got back that Felicity got her first promotion, and another had quickly followed. Her hours got longer, but it was hard to begrudge her that time when he could get called in unexpectedly or had to pull a double shift because of an important case. Plus it made her so damn happy, being on the forefront of technological work for the Nakatomi Corporation; and when Walter Steele handpicked her to oversee the setup of the new division she had nearly burst at the seams.  Oliver had been so proud of her and hundred percent supportive until they found out that the division was being setup in Los Angeles and not Starling.

They fought about it – their first serious fight – and Felicity had wavered on whether or not to accept the promotion. He’d hated himself then. His wife had been offered her dream job and the only thing holding her back was him. So he told her to go, and she told him that leaving him wasn’t going to happen; they fought again, but this time they made up – makeup sex with Felicity easily won the best sex of his life – and they made a plan. When she had expressed her concerns to Walter he’d been understanding and mentioned the possibility of her time in LA only being a year. Since Oliver couldn’t just drop his cases and transfer they decided they could manage a year of living in different cities with them traveling to visit each other as much as they could. Once the year was up, if Felicity needed to stay longer they’d reevaluate and in the meantime Oliver would look into what he would need to do to make the move to the LAPD.

Of course they were closing in on that year timeframe and Oliver hadn’t even talked to Lance about it. Worse, it looked like Felicity would definitely need to stay in LA longer than anticipated. He knew that conversation was going to come up during this visit and he didn’t look forward to seeing the disappointment on her face when she realized that he hadn’t lived up to their agreement. He never expected to need to, and now that the time had come he couldn’t help but be angry at himself for procrastinating and annoyed at Felicity – well at her job – for putting them in this position.

To top it all off, instead of flying in and getting alone time with his spouse, he was off to some stupid office Christmas party. Felicity was Jewish, and even though they celebrated both holidays, he’d hope to avoid sharing her with her job during his visit. He was definitely not in the cheerful holiday frame of mind when he landed; nor was he feeling his normal excitement at the prospect of seeing Felicity in person. In fact, Oliver was sort of dreading it. So much so, he’d been terse (Felicity would have said grumpy) with his driver, a young kid by the name of Sin, who’d tried to ease his obvious tension with small talk during the drive from the airport to Nakatomi Plaza.

As they pulled up to the building, Sin offered to wait in the garage. “If things go well with your lady call down and I’ll skedaddle. If not, I’ll be here to take you wherever you need to go.”

He forced out a chuckle. “You’re a good woman Sin,” he said sliding out of the car, carryon in hand. The kid flashed him a smile and wished him, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Oliver replied, shutting the door. He knew he was going to need it.

After the perfunctory pleasantries with the security guards, he searched the employee records as directed. When he didn’t see Felicity’s name come up under ‘Q’ for Queen he cursed internally in displeasure. He knew she didn’t use his last name professionally but the longer they’d been apart the more it bothered him. He wasn’t worried about Felicity cheating on him, but he knew her appeal and didn’t like the thought of men looking at her, especially when he was so far away. If she was using his name, he couldn’t help but think his claim on her would be stronger, more than just a visible image of a ring on her finger, but a constant reminder when they called her Mrs. Queen instead of Ms. Smoak. Hell, she could hyphenate it, like she’d mentioned before they got married. “Smoak-Queen, a bit of a mouthful but I kind of like it.” She had looked so gorgeous lying underneath him, blonde hair haloed around her, satiated from their lovemaking that he’d replied, “I fell in love with Felicity Smoak. That’s who you are, who you’ll always be, who I _want_ you to be. No name change, no hyphenating.” It had been a pleasured soaked, romantic statement that Felicity had adored and up until she’d left for LA he hadn’t regretted it. Now it just felt like another thing between them. Searching under Smoak, he found her record, which included a smiling picture of her.

Oliver didn’t have time to assess why he felt his body tense more at seeing her picture, before he was given access to the thirtieth floor where the party was taking place. “Have a good evening, sir,” the guard said.

He nodded. “You too, and Merry Christmas,” he replied before getting onto the elevator. The door closed on the quiet lobby and after a short ride it opened on a loud celebratory party. Entering the rambunctious fray he did a quick survey of the guests looking for Felicity. He spotted her near the windows; Walter Steele was at her side, along with unknown man in a perfectly cut suit, which made him feel extremely underdressed in his jeans and henley. Even from a distance Oliver could see appreciation and want in the stranger’s dark eyes as he looked down at Felicity. Gritting his teeth, he maneuvered his way through the crowd towards them.

Felicity was in mid-technobabble when she sensed his presence, she stopped her gaze leaving Walter and coming to settle on him. Her crystal blue eyes softened and her luscious lips turned up, spreading across her pretty face into a welcoming smile. Oliver’s conflicted feelings were washed away by the warmth and love in her eyes and the delight on her face, and he returned her grin with one of his own. She shoved the glass of champagne she held towards the younger man of their trio and rushed towards him. Once Felicity was within reach she popped up onto her toes so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. He dropped his bag, enfolded his arms around her waist and lifted her, his mouth seeking the crook of her neck so he could kiss her there. She shivered at the touch of lips and one of his hands fisted in her hair, which felt so much smoother and softer than he remembered. “You’re here,” she sighed happily before dropping a few quick kisses on his ear. He took a moment to breathe her in, before lifting his head and greeting her with a hungry kiss.

A few moments later he heard a polite cough from Mr. Steele and Oliver knew the flush on his wife’s cheeks was from both the kiss and embarrassment from being the momentary center of attention at the party. “That right there will land you in my predicament,” a very pregnant redhead teased.

Felicity laughed and introduced her to him as, “This Caitlin.Cait is married to Ronnie,” she continued gesturing to the tall man behind her. “He’s the structural engineer leading the construction improvements here.”

“You must be the gorgeous husband Felicity keeps promising to introduce us to,” Caitlin replied, behind her Ronnie groaned, “Gorgeous?” Oliver watched in amusement as she rolled her caramel colored eyes. “It’s so good to see that you do in fact exist.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I like to keep her to myself when I get down here. It is good to finally meet the LA equivalent of Tommy and Laurel,” he said, offering his hand. Ronnie’s grip was firm and he wore welcoming smile as they exchanged the time-honored greeting of a handshake.

“Felicity’s words?” he asked at Oliver’s description of them.

“Of course they were,” Caitlin answered for him and squeezed his hand. “We’re crazy about her just so you know.”

“Cait,” Felicity flushed, though it was clear to Oliver that the words pleased her.

“She has that effect on people,” he replied, pulling Felicity to his side. She responded with a similar sounding, “Oliver.” Though before anything more could be said between them, Walter stepped forward.

“It is good to see you again, Oliver,” he greeted, extending his hand.

“You as well,” he replied with a quick pump. “Merry Christmas.” He shot a quick look down at Felicity, “Anyone I need to wish Happy Hanukkah to?”

“Not at the moment,” she replied. Her glass of champagne suddenly appeared in front of her, stealing her attention from him and putting it on the mystery man. Taking the glass she said, “Thank you, Ray.” He watched her take a quick slip of the bubbly, golden liquid before introducing him. “Oliver this Ray Palmer. He’s the lead developer of the ATOM project. Ray, my husband Oliver.”

“The policeman, right?” he asked, offering a full teeth grin and his hand.

“Detective,” he clarified, squeezing the man’s hand extra hard when they shook. Sensing the tension, Felicity excused them from the party, saying they needed a few minutes alone. He promised a longer conversation with Caitlin and Ronnie, before picking up his bag and being dragged off towards her office.

“Alone at last,” she breathed shutting the door, cutting off most of the noise from the party. He had walked straight into her office and had not turned around to look at her. The walls were painted a soft green, with splashes of vibrant color from photographs of neon signs. The biggest one was a Big Belly Burger sign. It had been his last Hanukkah gift to her the year before, a reminder of their first date. He had booked them reservation at most expensive restaurant in town, Table Salt, but there had been a mix up and the reservation he’d made turned out to be for the next Thursday. Felicity had laughed it off and asked to take him to her favorite place, which happened to be Big Belly for burgers, milkshakes and duo of onion rings and fries. They had gone to Table Salt the following week. It had been their fifth date, if you counted the coffee date they had the morning before, which he did. He counted everything with Felicity.

There was very little on her desk; a computer, a phone, an in-and-out duo basket, and lamp. The credenza on the side wall, however, was covered in photographs including a particularly poignant silhouette shot from their wedding day.

He didn’t respond and after a beat Felicity walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know it’s not as alone as you’d like, but soon. I promise.” He felt her cheek burrow into his back as she spoke and he tried to relax.

Finding he couldn’t he squeezed her wrist and stepped out of her embrace. “Do you have anywhere I can freshen up?” he asked. “I went straight from the precinct to the airport.”

When their gazes met again he could see the uncertainty in her eyes as she worried her bottom lip. Oliver chastised himself for his boneheaded move, though he didn’t get to right it before she pointed to the doorway on the wall opposite of the credenza, “Private bathroom thataway.” She offered a hesitant smile, “See you out there in a few?”

“You bet,” he managed to choke out, before bee-lining it to the bathroom, bag clutched tightly in his hand. Cursing himself under his breath, Oliver banged his head lightly against the bathroom wall.

He thought he reached the low point of his night. He could not have been more wrong.

Nearly thirty harrowing minutes later, he found himself pounding his fists against a window on the thirty-second floor trying to get the attention of the police officer below. His evening had gone from bad to worse when he heard gunfire and the party music came to a screeching halt. His cop instincts to observe and assess had warred with the need to get to Felicity as quickly as possible and put himself between her and danger.

Having found C4 and a cash of detonators on the uninvited party guests, Oliver was grateful that his cop disposition had prevailed; he had to know exactly what the danger was if he was going to figure out how to protect Felicity. The fire alarm he pulled had already been called off, and his breaking into emergency frequency had gotten a one cop response, which was pathetic but at this point he’d take what he could get. He was barefoot – he’d been changing into dressier clothes when the gunfire broke out – and injured from his fight with two of the … until he knew more Oliver figured he’d go with bad guys. He felt a little sick, from being unable to prevent Walter Steele’s death and the physical pain he was in, but mostly because he’d killed. It wasn’t the first time – that dubious distinction belong to Barton Mathis, a serial killer who managed to escape custody during transport to the courthouse during his final appeal process.

The whole city had been in an uproar at the time, his captain in particular because he’d been the one to capture Mathis in the first place. His dogged re-pursuit of Mathis, which went into overdrive when the killing started again, landed Lance in the madman’s crosshairs. The psycho had targeted his daughter in retribution and it hadn’t really been a choice then, he’d killed Mathis to save Laurel. It wasn’t a decision he regretted, but taking a life, even of a person as despicable as Barton Mathis, had weighed on him.

He barely had moment to steady himself, to remember that these men were threatening Felicity and that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep her safe, before he noticed the officer leaving. He couldn’t let that happen. He _needed_ help.

Desperate, he fired two quick shots into the window, not caring that he’d be giving his position away. It splintered but didn’t break. He prayed it was enough as he tossed one of the men onto a desk that held architectural drawings. Oliver backed up a few steps, and then started to run; hitting the desk he pushed it towards the window. He slammed into it hard causing the glass to shatter, sending the desk and body through it and down towards the ground. He threw out his arm, catching himself on the frame so he did not follow suit. The sound of their impact reverberated up. Looking down he saw that the desk had landed just to the left of the vehicle, while the body was on the hood. The staccato of machine gunfire sounded and the cruiser pulled jerkily back, before crashing over a retaining wall.

He waited with bated breath to see if the officer inside had survived the gunfire. When he saw the man carefully exit the car and check the body on its hood for a pulse, Oliver offered, “Welcome to the party, pal,” out of sheer relief even though he knew he could not be heard.

\---

When he got to the scene several minutes later there were numerous police vehicles in the process of rolling up, and they’d just started cordoning off their parameter. Max was elated to find that he’d been right; something was happening, based on the force present – something _big_ , and so far they were the only news crew on-site.

He’d crow later. Right now, he had story to ferret out and break.

\---

_Forty Minutes Earlier_

Felicity headed back into holiday joviality feeling confused and apprehensive. The last time things had been that awkward between her and Oliver had been when he explained his past with Laurel Lance as they were getting ready to go on their first double date with Tommy and Laurel. That ill-advised timing led to one of her most embarrassing babbles at dinner, where she artlessly jested that she and Tommy could sleep together to even the playing field. Laurel had simply raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, while Tommy nearly choked on his wine and a murderous look crossed Oliver’s face. Her very irate boyfriend had warned his best friend in a not so pleasant manner to never, _ever_ consider it. Tommy had paled at his tone and at that point Laurel started laughing out loud. Thankfully the humor the other woman found in the situation ended the tension at the table and they ended up having an enjoyable evening.

She couldn’t help wondering what Oliver hadn’t told her. His playboy past briefly flittered through her mind, but Felicity quickly dismissed the thought; she had no doubts when it came to her husband’s feelings for her and she knew he’d never risk their relationship for a fleeting moment of pleasure. Felicity pondered if something came up in an investigation. Oliver would fill her in on the highlights of his day, but he tended not go into the details unless he needed a sounding board and even then he would keep the more troublesome aspects of his cases from her. Having kept in touch with his captain – Quentin Lance had become like a father to her after befriending Laurel and her sister, Sara. So much so that he triple checked that she wanted to go through with the ceremony before walking her down the aisle. She knew from him that there was nothing out of ordinary in Oliver’s caseload at the moment and for that Felicity was grateful. Things had been difficult following Barton Mathis’s escape and she hoped none of them would ever have to go through something like that again.

Thinking of Oliver’s work while being at her own made her cognizant of the fact that their year deadline was quickly approaching, and based on where things stood she would need spend another twelve to sixteen months in LA before she’d be able to return to Starling. Had that been what was on Oliver’s mind? The knowledge that they would have to discuss their living and working situations this visit.

Felicity knew that Oliver did not want to leave Starling. He loved the city; it was practically an extension of his family, which she knew he’d do anything to protect. Being a cop was more than just a job to him and while he could perform the duty anywhere, it wouldn’t mean the same thing to him.

Though she had rejoined Walter and Ray, Felicity was not pulled from her thoughts until the sound of gunfire echoed through the room. As orders were shouted and screams filled the air her gaze swept the room – across the pandemonium she saw Caitlin safe in Ronnie’s arms as their group was corralled.  She was searching for her husband when Ray pulled her behind him. She found the gesture both sweet and annoying. She was capable woman; she didn’t need to be protected. Besides there was only one person who would have made her feel safe in this situation and she had yet to lay eyes on him.

Felicity continued to seek him out, but the as their captors cleared out the last of the offices there was no sign of her husband. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or concerned by the lack of Oliver’s presence. The sound of an unfamiliar cultured voice finally pulled her from her chaotic thoughts. “Due to the Nakatomi Corporation's legacy of greed around the globe, they are about to be taught a lesson in the real use of power,” he stated calmly from the stairway platform that led to the conference room on the thirty-first floor.  “You all will bear witness.” Taking in his suave looks, expensive suit and gracious smile Felicity had trouble associating the man with his armed compatriots.

With bated breath Felicity watched the gunmen’s spokesman make his way slowly down the steps. When he reached the main level, he asked, “Now, where is Mr. Steele?” Beside her, she felt him tense. “Walter Joseph Steele,” he continued. Felicity saw Walter begin to shift forward and caught his forearm. “Don’t,” she whispered, shooting him a pleading expression. The Big Boss, as she decided to dub him went on, “Born in Southampton, UK, 1960.” As he spoke, he slithered around the assembled hostages, eyeing the men who could potentially be his intended target. “Family moved to London, 1965. Scholarship student at Ashford School in Kent. Law degree, Cambridge. MBA, Harvard.” He started towards Walter, saying, “President, Nakatomi Corporation. Chairman, Applied Sciences Group,” he finished stopping in front of Walter.

“Enough,” her boss heaved. It was easy for Felicity to read his agitation, though she doubted anyone else could see past his stiff British upper lip cool. Walter personified keep calm and carry on. “I am Walter Steele.”

“It’s a pleasure Mr. Steele,” Big Boss replied. “If you’d please.” He lifted his arm and gestured towards the stairs, “I’d liked to have a private conversation.”

Felicity flexed her fingers over Walter’s arm, silently begging him not to leave. Walter patted her hand; she felt the curious gaze of Big Boss on her as Walter disengaged himself from her grasp. Heart pounding, worry etching her brow she watched the man who’d become a dear friend walk away from her and felt dread pebble heavily in her stomach. Seeing his form disappear to the floor above Felicity could not stop herself from fearing that she‘d never lay eyes on him again. That added to her concern for Oliver was enough to make her brain shoot into overdrive as she tried to analyze a safe way out of this situation for everyone.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been calculating scenarios when she felt the energy in the room shift. Big Boss had returned and he was once again speechifying from the landing above them. “I wanted this to be professional, efficient, adult, _cooperative_.” His tone had Felicity going cold. “Not a lot to ask. Alas, your Mr. Steele did not see it that way ... so he won't be joining us for the rest of his life.” The news caused a collective cry to sound from the party guests. Walter was a beloved figure within the Nakatomi Corporation. Her heart physically ached at the news of his death.

When Big Boss resumed speaking over the sounds of distress Felicity found herself wanting to claw at him with her brightly painted nails. How dare he show so little respect for Walter, who’d been a treasure of a human being. “This can go anyway you want it. You can walk out of here or be carried out.” The smug look on his face stripped her of sadness as fury began to burn inside her in earnest. “But have no illusions. We are in charge. So, decide now, each of you. And please remember: we have left _nothing_ to chance.”

Suddenly, Oliver’s absence made her feel better. These monsters may have planned everything out to the last detail, but they could not have anticipated having to deal with her husband. Felicity knew without a shadow doubt that he was somewhere in the building, working to foil their odious plan, and there was no one she trusted more to successfully complete that mission.

Minutes later, when the one of the elevator doors slid open, causing Ray’s assistant to scream and Big Boss man to rush over – she noted how his body language changed – and a game telephone brought the message written on the body to her ears. “Now I have a machine gun.” Felicity knew she was right, Oliver was working to stop these terrorists, and the fear that had been simmering just beneath the surface of everything else disappeared.

\---

Max positioned himself so the strobing lights of the police vehicles could be seen just behind his head, which would force attention to his face – making him the reconcilable knowledge source of the events he’d be reporting – the face that the audience would remember. Up over his left shoulder loomed the Nakatomi building, within the shot a crashed, upside-down desk resting in front of the main entrance doors could be seen.

His cameraman Ned signaled the countdown to cutting in live to make his report. Max ran through a quick mental breakdown of what was known at this time, which was not at lot, but he was a master of working with nothing. Ned gave the final indication; the red light flickered on his camera alerting him that he was live. “Good evening,” he started, “this is Max Fuller of KFLW, reporting live from Nakatomi Plaza where under an hour ago a festive holiday party turned into a nightmare …”

\---

_Ten Minutes Earlier_

He was beginning to wonder if he could develop claustrophobia. After crawling around in the bowels of the building, through air ducts and elevators shafts, confined spaces were quickly becoming one of his least favorite things. Not to mention using dead bodies to send messages. He’d gained the police officer’s attention with one body and used the other to gather intel on the intruders. He’d felt nauseous while doing it, though that could have been the height of the elevator shaft; apparently he was developing a case of acrophobia as well. Just what he needed.

Oliver was relieved that his brazen scheme had worked. He now knew the leader’s name, Fyers, and his right-hand was Wintergreen. He had three other names – Theo, Eddie and Heinrich – and with the two men he’d already taken out he was left with eleven men to contend with – he was facing some stupendous odds.

He was vastly outmanned, injured and severely pissed off. More than anything Oliver wanted his arms wrapped around Felicity, the two of them safely someplace else. He couldn’t help but picture his mother’s house, it would be trimmed for Christmas – his family’s most loved holiday – and he could picture sitting in her living room, tree lights twinkling surrounded by his favorite people: his mother, his sister, Tommy and Laurel, sipping hot cocoa. Felicity would try to steal his marshmallows and his mother would hint at grandchildren. He desperately wanted that image his mind had conjured, but Oliver knew the only way to get it was to survive this ordeal and to see to it that Felicity did as well.

Thinking of his brilliant, vibrant wife he fortified himself for his next move. He knew he had to get the information he had to the gathering police presence outside the building. Oliver knew he’d be drawing the ire of Fyers and his men, but there was no other choice to make. He’d just started broadcasting the bare minimum of details he’d learned when an angry voice cut off his radio transmission, “I thought I told all of you that I want radio silence until further—”

“Sorry Fyers,” he said interrupting the other man. “I didn’t get the message. Perhaps you should work on your communication skills.” He paused a moment, but when he got no response Oliver continued, “I figured since I’ve axed Tony and Marco, you and your pals, Wintergreen and Heinrich, might be a little lonely.” He threw out their names hoping to knock the men off balance.

Static buzzed momentarily before Fyers replied more in control than he liked, “You must be our mysterious party crasher. You’re most irksome for a security guard.”

“Eeehhh,” he sounded, letting the man know he guessed wrong. “Would you like to go for Double Jeopardy where the score can really change?” Oliver heard the first hint of annoyance when Fryers asked, “Who are you then?”

Though the man on the other side of the radio could not see him, Oliver felt a rueful smile tug at his lips. “Just a fly in the ointment, Fyers. The monkey in the wrench. The pain in the ass,” he joked. He was beginning to really enjoy egging on the other man, but he had to halt the exchange when he ran into another henchman.

As he struggled with the wiry man Oliver idly wondered where Fyers had recruited his men. Was there an 800-Lackey service he didn’t know about? He was in the midst of the hand-to-hand altercation when the slightly smarmy voice returned, “Mr. Mystery Guest? Are you still there?”

It took another minute for him to conclude the fight victoriously, leaving him with another life on his conscience, but when facing kill or be kill stakes he had little choice. Masking his disquiet behind humor he finally answered, “Still here. Feel like opening the front door for me?”

“Afraid not,” the clipped British voice responded. Oliver noted that his accident was different than Walter’s had been; it was harsher, less refined, though that could be the man himself. “You have me at a loss. You know my name but who are you?” Fyers waited a beat, but when Oliver refused to answer he continued, “Just another American who saw too many movies as a child? Another orphan of a bankrupt culture who thinks he's John Wayne? Rambo? Marshal Dillon?”

He scoffed at the outdated cultural references, clearly Fyers didn’t have his own pop-culture guide; but having a wife with an inquisitive mind and who was interested in practically everything, Oliver could work with the man’s stunted allusions. “I’m partial to Roy Rogers myself. I really like those sequined shirts.”

Apparently his glib response was finally enough to knock loose Fyers’ detached cool. “Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mr. Cowboy?”

Pleased that he accomplished what he set out to do, Oliver ended the current verbal judo round, with a self-satisfied, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.” He figured with that send off, whatever plan they’d been striving towards would be placed on the backburner or at least derailed some as they searched for him.

He’d managed to drop a fair amount of information over the airwaves – that they were dealing with mostly Europeans, that they were armed to the teeth, well financed and slick – and Oliver got the impression that the cop he’d spoken with had clued in on the fact that he was a badge himself. Now, he needed to learn what their plan might be, hopefully without appraising Fyers.

Stealthily he moved to a secluded area of the building and reached out to his brother in blue. As they conversed it struck him that the easy rapport he developed with Sergeant John Diggle was an unexpected, but much appreciated twist of fate. Though Diggle, as he requested to be called, was not physically in the building able to help him, the sense of camaraderie their exchange inspired made him feel less like he facing this impossible situation on his own.

They’d actually been bullshitting, as if they weren’t in the middle of hostage situation; the normalcy of it all was crazy. As was the fact he’d told Diggle told him to call him Roy. It was in Felicity’s best interest, as well as his own, that his identity remained a mystery to the men who had hijacked their evening.

When he learned that he’d prevented Diggle from heading home, emergency craving supplies in hand for his pregnant wife, Oliver apologized. “Sorry to give you so much grief.”

His new pal huffed out a slightly nervy laugh. “I served three tours in Afghanistan, Cowboy. You don't even come close to my definition of grief.” Their banter was interrupted by Diggle’s superior. “Give me a sec.”

A few minutes later when Diggle’s voice again graced the airwaves it was tense. The lack of his friendly tone set Oliver on edge. He was getting a warning without words, and if it turned out to be what he thought it was lives could be lost. What part of extremely well-armed had they misinterpreted? He tried to protest, reiterating the information he provided earlier.

"We'll have talk later, Roy,” Diggle replied, glossing over his objection. “If you're what I think you are you _should_ know when to listen, when to shut up … when to pray."

Diggle’s message came across loud and clear. The stupid son-of-bitch who was running things down there was going to try and take the building. Oliver’s suspicion was confirmed when flood lights popped on and were directed across the face of the building. He cursed; thinking about what the attempted incursion could cost the men below and what it could mean for the hostages. For Felicity.

\---

Max made sure that the right mixture of solemn compassion and righteous indignation flashed in his sea glass eyes as he reported on the police’s failed attempt to infiltrate the building. Gunfire had been exchanged – a number of flood lights destroyed – RPGs had been fired at the police’s armored vehicle and a final explosion shooting out from the lobby had ended the skirmish, making for dramatic footage. In the background, he could hear DPC Singh arguing with a beat cop, as he soulfully expressed his relief that none of the battered officers appeared to have life-threatening injuries.  

He paused his account, allowing Ned to pan the camera and capture the visual of the current chaotic scene. When the camera lens was once again focused on him, Max relayed the demands released by the terrorists – he was pleased he could officially call them that – the term sold the importance of story. “The leader known as Fyers, is suspected to be Edward Fyers, a known mercenary with ties to multiple extremist organizations, has demanded the release of likeminded individuals across the globe including the five imprisoned leaders of Liberte de Quebec in Canada; along with nine members of Asian Dawn, a Sri Lankan movement.”

\---

He was a man accustomed to being the smartest person in the room, even as a boy his intellect had surpassed most of the adults he knew. Because of how quickly he processed things, Ray tended to bounce quickly from one train of thought to another; his ex-fiancé had called it the butterfly effect. At an early age he learned that being smart did not mean he was capable of knowing or understanding everything. Interactions with other children his age weren’t just awkward because his vocabulary and interests were more sophisticated than theirs, but because he had trouble reading the normal social cues. He supposed he could have studied them, like he did everything else, but with so much out there to learn or imagine and develop himself, the need for interpersonal interaction hadn’t seemed important.

In retrospect it had been a miscalculation, but he managed to get by, because as outlandish as his behavior could be sometimes, he genuinely cared about people and took an interest in them. Being unable to maintain focus on a relationship over time is what brought his engagement to Anna to an end.  She had wanted to devote more time to just being together as a couple, but his need to discover far outweighed the appeal of couple’s time.

When the relationship fizzled it had hurt, but he’d been able to distract himself with his work on the ATOM project. Inventing something from scratch, solving problems, making new unexpected discoveries – it was his passion, and it fulfilled him in most every way. He did miss having someone to go home to, the little inside jokes people in relationships developed, and having someone compatible in the physical release the human body craved. Ray figured he needed to meet a woman more like himself to have a successful relationship, but seeing how he’d yet to meet anyone else like him, he hadn’t held out much hope in that regard.

That all changed when Walter Steele introduced him to Felicity Smoak. At first, he’d admittedly been miffed that she had been brought in to oversee him; but within ten minutes of their initial conversation he realized that he was not the smartest person in the room, Felicity was, and that he been a first for him. He made intellectual leaps and she was right there with him, often times either step ahead or in a brilliant place he hadn’t thought to go to. And unlike himself, she was good with people and reading situations. Yes, sometimes thoughts would fly out of her mouth before she could think the better of it, but it was an endearing quality.

By the end of their hour long meeting Ray understood exactly why Walter had selected her to head up the creation of Nakatomi’s Applied Sciences Group. He’d left excited to begin working with her and a crush. They’d spent the next month exchanging calls and emails, as she and Walter prepped for their move to LA, where he was already based. Another first happened for him during those weeks, romantic ideas distracted him from work, and he actively planned just how to woo Felicity upon her arrival.

Her first day of work she stayed late to hang one of the photographs that had been delivered directly to the building. All but one had been placed in storage since it was only her temporary office as building and the entire division was a work in progress. He’d overheard her tell Ronnie that she wanted a taste of home here with her, when she thanked him for hand delivering it to her space. Ray had been grateful that he had to meet Caitlin; giving him the opportunity to offer his assistance and get alone time with her that he hoped would lead to a dinner invitation. A dinner where he planned to introduce romance into their budding friendship.

Ray hadn’t really gotten the appeal of the neon sign photograph – he preferred more classic artwork – but he thought he could learn to like it when he saw the grin that spread across Felicity’s face as she stepped back to admire it. His jovial mood soured and romantic intentions withered and died when she told him the photograph was a present from her husband.

It had taken his brain a moment to compute the word. _Husband_ , a noun; a married man considered in relation to his spouse, also known as partner, mate, other half. Terms he’d already been hoping to associate himself with in regards to Felicity Smoak. Ray remembered stuttering out a stunned question about her ring, the confused way Felicity’s brow had furled was adorable, as she held up her left hand to show of the platinum band on her finger. He’d noticed it when they first met, but hadn’t taken for a wedding band without an accompany engagement ring. Her eyes had gone soft as she told him how her husband, Oliver (definition: luckiest man alive), proposed to her.

Thankfully Felicity saved him from making an even bigger fool of himself by asking if he knew of any good take-out spots as she still had a ton of unpacking to do. For the next week he had avoided her as much as possible as he recalibrated his expectations of what they could be together; but he finally resigned himself to the fact that he would have a crush on Felicity Smoak for the foreseeable future.

Getting a visual on Oliver Queen for the first time this evening made him feel inadequate as a physical specimen. He might have an inch on the man, but he could not match the muscular width of his shoulders nor could he carry off the stubble-look he wore – he’d never been able to grow manly facial hair. The thing that got to him most though was how comfortable and jubilant Felicity looked tucked into his side. The ridiculous sliver of hope he’d been clinging to vanished upon seeing them as unit. They fit together like puzzle pieces.

When they disappeared to Felicity’s office, he’d been tempted to leave the party, as the thought of watching them be a couple all night made him feel queasy; but as quickly as they left, Felicity reappeared sans Oliver. Before he could even begin to hazard a guess as to why her husband left her side mayhem rained down on the festivities.

He was grateful to be there and offer Felicity protection when the gunmen stormed their offices, especially after Walter was taken away; but it wasn’t until he heard Jean scream and he learned of the gruesome message delivered to their captors, that it occurred to him that Oliver was not among their numbers.

Ray was unable to discuss that with Felicity before she left to speak with their captors’ leader. Those few minutes she’d been gone had been the most terrifying of his life. He couldn’t help but picture her never returning, just like Walter. He might have actually turned gray as he waited. If she’d been close enough when she re-entered the room he would have pounced on her, but she headed towards Caitlin. For a moment he was angry at her for not returning to his side, but then he saw two of gunmen carrying out a couch. Felicity helped Ronnie get Cait settled as she informed the group that they’d be allowed bathroom privileges shortly. He managed to catch her eye then and she shot him a concerned look.

After a quick word with the expectant couple, Felicity made her way back to him. “You okay?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder.

“Fine,” he had assured her. “Just worried about—” he almost said ‘you’ but Ray managed to stop himself. “Everyone.”

“I know the feeling,” she offered, settling down next him, “but we’ll get through this.” Though tense, her voice held confidence that he didn’t understand. It took him a moment to connect the dots. The message sent to their captors had been from Oliver. The amount of absolute faith she had in her husband stunned him. Yes, he was clearly a highly trained and competent police officer, but he was taking on superior forces. Well thought-out and dangerous forces.  Despite the fact that the odds were completely against him, Felicity trusted that her husband would be able to outwit their adversaries.

Ray tried to believe it to, for a while he managed to, but as the building shook from the explosion that had taken place within its walls his conviction faltered. Though Felicity pleaded with him not to, he caught the attention of one of the men and told them he could convince their mystery guest to turn himself in.

“Don’t,” Felicity hissed, holding tightly onto his arm when he would have walked away. Her eyes had taken on a near indigo hue as she drilled him with a cold look.

“He’s going to get us killed, Felicity. This is the only way,” he countered, dark eyes pleading with her to understand. He had to protect her and all their co-workers. Oliver’s way was too dicey, he might be willing to gamble with Felicity’s safety but he was not.

She let a breathy, “Please,” as he was forced away. If he could, he would give Felicity anything she asked of him, but this … placing his hopes and lives of all people assembled in Oliver Queen’s hands was just something he could not do. Not even for Felicity.

Fyers had set himself up in Felicity’s office and Ray had never been happier of anything than the fact that pictures situated on her credenza did not offer a clear image of Oliver. It was all profiles as Oliver was always looking at Felicity in the pictures. Knowing that Oliver could not be directly tied to Felicity, that she would not be used for leverage against him, made bringing him in easier.

After a brief go-around with Fyers, were he explained that Oliver was policeman and an old friend who’d unexpectedly dropped in for the party, Ray listened as the man broke into the conversation Oliver was having with a fellow officer. “Touching, Cowboy, touching. Or should I call you, Mr. Queen? Officer Oliver Queen of the Starling City Police Department?”

“My third grade teacher called me Mr. Queen,” Oliver responded, and though he sensed that he was trying to be glib, Ray heard the strain in his voice, “and most of my friends call me Ollie, you’re neither, asshole.”

Fyers appeared amused by his reply. “I have someone who wants to talk you. A _very_ special friend who was with you at the party tonight.” Ray fought back a wince, he didn’t want to give anything away, but if he was Oliver he knew his thoughts would immediately go to Felicity. Wanting to ease his worry, Ray quickly said, “Hey Ollie,” after he was handed the walkie talkie, though he nearly tripped over the nickname. Felicity had never once referred to him by the nickname, it was always Oliver.

“Palmer?” The relief and confusion was evident in Oliver’s voice.

“Yep,” he replied. “Listen Ollie, they want me to talk sense into you. I know you think you’re doing your job,” Ray realized that he was babbling. It was a proclivity that he shared with Felicity. “And believe me I appreciate that, but you’re just stretching this out. These men need to talk to the _Los Angeles_ police to sort things out and that’s not going to happen with you gumming up the works. Understand?”

Oliver ignored the plethora of words he imparted and threatened, and yes apparently a question could be a threat, “Palmer, what have you told them?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That we’re old pals and you were an unexpected party guest.”

“Ray,” Oliver’s use of his first name made it clear that he was trying to impart a message. Perhaps a thank you for leaving Felicity out of it? “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

Like he didn’t know that with the intimidating presence of two armed men behind him and the assessing gaze of Fyers. He didn’t want to be in this position, but the quickest way for this standstill to end would be for Oliver to stop engaging Fyers’ team; they could negotiate with people who were actually able to do something in this situation and not a cop without any standing. He wanted to explain that to Oliver, to make him understand that this wasn’t a knock against his capabilities, but the reality of the situation.  Considering how Felicity had beseeched him not to do this already, Ray didn’t think he could get through to Oliver, so instead, he did as he was instructed. “They want to know where the detonators are, Oliver. If they don’t get them, they’re going to kill me.” When he did not get an immediate response he asked, “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Oliver sighed, “I heard you.”

The anxious feeling that had begun to creep into him settled some. Ray knew everything Oliver had done so far had been about saving people. He knew he needed to use that to get him to see reason. “I’m putting my life in your hands here Oliver. Tell these men where their detonators are so no one else gets hurt.”

He couldn’t describe the frustrated noise Oliver made then. “Palmer— _Ray_ ,” his tone clipped, “put Fyers back on.”

“Oliver—”

“Put him back on right now,” he barked. Though Ray knew that Oliver had no way of knowing if had or had not done as ordered, he continued on as if he’d followed his instruction. “Fyers this idiot does not know the kind of man you are, but I do.”

Ray could not help the scoff he let loose. _Idiot_? He wasn’t the one trying to single-handedly take down armed villains. No that genius move was being attempted by Oliver Queen, whose IQ was nowhere near his own. If anyone was going to outthink these guys it was going to him. Or Felicity, but she was relying too much on Oliver for that.

Before he could protest, Fyers retrieved the radio and spoke, “Good, that means you’ll give me what I want and save your friend’s life.” He then lifted his gun, pointing it directly at him. “You're not part of this equation this time, you realize that.”

Ray gulped, as Oliver yelled out, “This asshole is _not_ my friend. I just met him tonight. I don’t know him. Christ, Palmer, these men _will_ kill you. You’ve got to tell them you don’t know me.”

The desperation was clear in his tone. It made Ray question who to play along with, Oliver or the man holding the gun on him. A cop had a duty, protect and serve, and Ray wanted this horrible night to be over. “Oliver, how can you say that after all these years?” He waited a beat, nothing. “Oliver?” Then another and still nothing. “Ollie?”

The silence drew on for another moment, he laughed nervously, and offered Fyers a ‘what can you do’ shoulder shrug.  His pale eyes showed no indication of what was about to happen. The sound of his gun going off surprised Ray, as did the burning sensation in his chest. One moment he’d been breathing, well not easily, but without obstruction and the next he was spitting up blood as he attempted to draw air into his lungs. “You hear that?” Fyers asked, allowing his choked breathing to be heard, “Talk to me! Tell me where my detonators are or shall a shoot another one?”

Slumping back in the chair he heard Fyers taunt, “Sooner or later I’m bound to get someone you _do_ care about.

The last thing Ray heard was Oliver’s anguished voice saying, “Go fuck yourself, Fyers.”

\---

The cutover to the studio could not have happened at a more opportune moment. While they were busy talking with a so-called expert about the emotional toll the hostages were experiencing, Max had been able to listen to the exchange between the newly out Oliver Queen and Fyers.

Hopping on the phone with his producer, Mason Bridge, he bypassed pleasantries, and said, “We need all the information we can get on Oliver Queen, Starling City police officer. ASAP. Secondary, a work up on Ray Palmer.”

“I’ll get Iris on it,” he answered. “FBI on scene yet?”

Max scanned the area, but there were no telltale signs of federal involvement. “Not yet.”

“Won’t be long,” Mason remarked, and he agreed with the assessment. On top of the terrorists’ demands and the police’s doomed assault, they had a non-hostile casualty. There was no way the FBI wouldn’t involve themselves. “The second they’re on site I want it reported.”

Max nearly snorted, if it wasn’t for his initiative KFLW wouldn’t have been first on scene. They’d be playing catch up like every other station. “Whatever you say boss.”

“Your words and tone say two very different things, Max.” He considered responding, but pissing Mason off now would be pointless. Besides, he would have missed out on hearing the best news of the evening if he had mouth-offed. “You’re going national when we come back to you. Be ready in three.”

He wasn’t given a chance to reply, but at the moment he didn’t care. _National_. He was finally going to be seen in homes across America. A shit-eating grin stretched across his face as he signaled Ned. “The second we get anything on Queen I want to know.

\---

Every time Oliver thought the night could not get any worse it did. Fisting a pack of foreign cigarettes in his hand he idly thought of lighting one up. In their youth, he and Tommy had pretty much tried everything, luckily nothing stuck – though they still celebrated the big milestones with either a shot of top-shelf tequila or whiskey. His first drag of a cigarette had him nearly hacking up a lung, so he hadn’t taken a second. Tommy, however, had gone through a horrible six-month clove cigarette phase, and to this day the scent still made his nose twitch.

He knew indulging in such a frivolous inclination would end up doing more harm than good, so he shoved them back in the stolen bag, causing his hand to brush up against the detonators. The stupid fucking detonators that had cost Palmer his life. He hadn’t liked the man during their brief introduction, and though he had not been the one to pull the trigger, Oliver felt the weight of his death more so than the ones he ended personally this evening.

Logically, Oliver knew the second Palmer had approached Fyers he’d been a dead man, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible for his death. If only he’d been able to get him to admit the truth … it wouldn’t have changed a thing he knew. No matter what he done or said, Palmer would have ended up with a lethal bullet imbedded in him, just like Walter. It was a fate he feared all the hostages were destined for if he didn’t manage to stop Fyers. After his earlier go around with Deputy Chief Singh over the failed incursion Oliver truly felt like he was in this battle by himself. The man had complained about glass raining down on them, when he had been one to stop the assault on his men – the men Singh had put in danger.

Diggle may have had his back, and he might be right that there were a few other appreciative cops down there, but essentially he was alone in this and now Fyers had his name. Oliver could only hope that whatever they were really doing here, and the wrench he was throwing in his plans, would keep him from researching him and finding out about Felicity. It seemed almost poetic that a few hours ago he was cursing the fact that Felicity did not share his last name and now he was beyond grateful for that fact.

Oliver knew he had to stop being distracted by his fear and think; because Felicity, as well as, the rest of the hostages were depending on him. If his wife was here next to him she’d tell him to make Fyers out think him, but he had no earthly idea how to do that with the man’s ultimate goal a mystery. Until he knew what Fyers was after, what he was _really_ after, he could not plan how to stop him.

“Hey Oliver,” Diggle’s voice crackled over the radio and he was relieved to have a distraction from his circling thoughts, “how you feeling?”

He let a mirthless laugh, “Peachy.”

Diggle echoed his laugh and replied, “I would believe you, if you weren't so full of crap.”

“You know me so well already Diggle.”

“I’m starting to,” he agreed, before sighing. It was odd, but after a handful of discussions, some more meaningful than others – such as Diggle sharing why he’d been riding the desk – Oliver was able to read the other man and knew to ask, “What’s happening out there?”

“Company. Federal company,” he answered. Oliver could hear the frustration in those three little words and he understood it perfectly, having had a few tangles with the feds himself.

“Wonderful.” He was going to say more, when a loud clank sounded, followed by shuffling feet. “Need a minute,” he informed Diggle.

“Be careful,” his new found friend instructed.

“Guess he still has things to learn,” he muttered to himself as he carefully made his way towards where the noise had sounded. Gun raised he inched down the hallway, his back pressed against the wall. Oliver could make out the sound of erratic breathing. He took a quiet steadying breath of his own before rounding the corner.

“Please don’t shoot me. Please,” a straw-blonde man with a vague southern accent begged, throwing his arms up to shield himself. The green eyes that met his blue were filled with panic. He was fit and dressed in an expensive, tailored suit. Oliver tried to recall if saw him in the party crowd earlier, but he could not place him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a Nakatomi employee or someone’s guest, but instinct told him otherwise.

“Hey, it is alright,” he said, keeping his voice warm and soothing, as he was trained to do to keep a situation from escalating. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Oliver lowered the weapon and switched the safety on.

“How … how can I know that?” the man asked. Oliver tried to determine if the trepidation he heard in the voice was forced or not.

“Fair question,” he replied, holstering the gun in the front of his pants. He moved his hands slowly, so the stranger could see every movement clearly. He pulled another gun, one that was not loaded, from his back and held the shaft of it, his fingers nowhere near the trigger and held the butt out to him. “This should help,” he said offering him the gun.

The man’s gaze swept down to the weapon and up to his again, he shuffled forward two steps, “I, ah … not sure I could use it,” he said wrapping his hand around it.

“Make sure the safety is off, point and shoot,” he supplied releasing his grasp on the gun. “They won’t hesitate to shoot you, so you shouldn’t either.” During their interplay, Oliver remembered the cigarettes he shoved back in the bag. “Do you smoke?”

“Yeah,” the man drawled.

Oliver swung the bag from behind him and watched the calculation flash briefly in his eyes. He dug out the pack and offered what he was beginning to be certain was one of the terrorists a cigarette. “Thanks,” he said, before lighting pungent tobacco and taking a deep drag. Upon an appreciative exhale, he continued, “You don't work for Nakatomi and you're not one of them.”

It appeared they were both on a fishing mission. Wanting to see how it would play out Oliver offered him a friendly smile and details already known from his last heated exchange with Fyers. “Startling City police officer.”

“Starling?” repeated, his voice questioning, his brow arched in curiosity.

“Yeah. I got invited to the party by mistake,” he offered. “Who knew, right?” They shared a tense laugh. “I’m Oliver Queen.” As he’d done at the party, he extended his hand, “You are?”

“Clay,” he responded after a moment of hesitation. Clasping his hand and shaking it firmly, he provided his full name. “Bill Clay.”

The name was familiar, as Felicity had mentioned him a few times; she had a soft spot for him and his stories about his grandchildren. Her more color description of the man had been what she pictured Santa Claus would look like if the pop culture figure was portrayed as an elderly African American. His suspicions confirmed, he released the handshake and took a few steps back. “Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” he said easily, “but your accent is shit. Why don’t we stop playing games?”

‘Clay’ took another hit from the cigarette. “Yes,” he agreed, smoke pushing out of his mouth with his words, “why don’t we.” He flicked the cigarette at his head, giving him the moment he needed to pull the gun he’d given him. “Give me my detonators,” he hissed the order, fake accent gone, and Oliver realized whom he was speaking to – not just any bad guy, but Fyers himself.

“Well, well, well … Fyers.” Oliver had to fight back urge to beat the man with his bare hands, but he still needed intel. His smartass routine got to Fyers earlier, so he went with it again. “Good to put a face to the voice. You’re not as ugly as I expected.”

Irritation getting the best of him, Fyers lunged. Oliver countered, fisting his hands in his suit lapels; he twisted and lifted in a quick motion throwing him down another hallway. Oliver heard the gun hit off the floor as Fyers landed with a thud. He used the man’s few seconds of disorientation to pull his gun, and in seamless move, disengage the safety. He found himself standing a few feet from his foe, both of them staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Put it down. Now!”

Oliver smirked. Looked like he managed to out think Fyers after all. “That’s pretty tricky with the accent. You could be on TV with it. But what do you want with the detonators, Fyers? I already used all the explosives.” There was brief pause and finally being able to see his adversary face-to-face, to read him, he was able to put some of the pieces together. “Or did I?”

“I am going to count to three…” he warned.

“Like you did with Walter?” Oliver bit him off. “Try again.” Instead of words, Fyers pulled the trigger. The sound of a click filled the air between them. “Ooops.”

Fyers furiously pulled the trigger three more times. Again, and again, and again to nothing but a small clicking sound. “No more bullets. Do you think I’m stupid?”

To his right an elevator slid open. “You were saying,” Fyers offered as one of his thugs jumped on him. They hit wall and Oliver’s gun went off. The man smacked Oliver’s hands into the wall, forcing the gun from him. “Get the bag,” Oliver heard Fyers order.

Grappling with the man, Oliver tried to reach for the gun as he pushed to put distance between them. A booted foot landed on the weapon and with a swift kick backwards the gun slid back down the hallway he first encountered Fyers in.

Oliver threw an elbow and the man let out a pained grunt. Then he heard the tell-tale sound of a switch knife releasing its blade. Turning he made a grab for the knife, but his attention on the weapon left him open to a blow from the guy’s forearm to his nose. It wasn’t forceful enough to break it, but the sting of it had his eyes watering. The blurring of his vision prevented him from stopping the man from cutting the bag.

Oliver pawed at the bag as the man tugged on it. Inching it away while they struggled was not enough for his fellow combatant and Oliver felt the blade glide across the top of his hand. An involuntary response had him releasing his hold on the bag. He threw his shoulder into the man’s side, as he tossed the bag to Fyers.

Bag in hand, Fyers instructed, “Finish him,” before leaving with the detonators. Oliver discharged a frustrated growl. He used that emotion to fuel his actions, yanking the arm holding the knife behind his opponent’s back. With a hard twist of his wrist, Oliver wrestled the knife from his grip and planted it in his attacker’s spine.

As the body dropped, bullets began to ricochet around him. With no other option, Oliver retreated into the bowels of the building berating himself for not being as smart as he thought he was and wondering what the hell Fyers needed with the detonators.

\---

When he reported the news of the FBI’s involvement it had been to a national audience, but overall Max knew the story would not be compelling enough stay on the tips of people’s tongues without a hook. There were hundreds of standoffs within a year at local, state and even the national level. Unless there was an absorbing human interest element to the story, one that needed him to be the face of it, telling it (or hawking it in some cases) he’d end up a blip in the national consciousness. Just some guy people vaguely recognized and weren’t certain as to why.

As Iris feed him the information she dug up on Oliver Queen, decorated police detective, and his wife, Felicity Smoak, a high ranking Nakatomi Corporation employee Max knew had the spin of the decade. The romance of it all, heroic husband desperately striving to save his genius wife from armed captors. The story practically sold itself and that was before anyone got a look at the handsome couple.

Oliver Queen had movie star looks, and his wife was not far behind him in that department. Bad things happening to beautiful people always captivated the audience and by the time he was done telling the tale no would forget the teller.

Exhilarated by the prospect, Max started to weave the web, telling the story of Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak trapped high above in the Nakatomi building.

\---

He was a meticulous man. Always had been. It had served him well in his chosen profession. For every operation he worked he planned out every move, thought of possible contingencies and planned for them. To rob the Nakatomi Corporation of $640 million dollars every detail had been thought out. The men he had decided to include, all selected for their expertise and disposition. He had obtained the buildings plans – electrical, engineering, and architectural as well as their security setup and he knew the exact amount of C4 needed to blow the roof, killing the hostages and making authorities think they were dead as well. He had researched the safe that held the bearer bonds, knew all that was needed to get inside it, which is why he learned everything he could about Walter Steele and how to play him; and why he was counting the on the FBI’s presence.

The one thing he hadn’t been able to anticipate was the cowboy, and the havoc a single determined police officer had wreaked on his plans flabbergasted him. He was Edward Fyers, master mercenary; he’d outwitted dictators, other mercenaries, and intelligence agencies only to get tripped up by an overzealous badge.

It didn’t sit well with him. Getting an up close and personal look at his adversary had done little to assuage his confusion. When he confronted Oliver Queen, he’d seen a rugged individual, a battered and very persistent man. He had hoped to glean that was driving him. It had to be more than duty, Edward was certain of that, because even though Queen knew better, duty demanded that he capitulate and save Palmer. He hadn’t, but solving the mystery of him was no longer necessary.

He had the detonators and his men had wired the roof so their escape plan was back in play and just moments ago the FBI had done as anticipated and cut the main power releasing the final lock on the safe. Emergency lighting illuminated the building, the yellow lighting cast a dire glow over the imprisoned inhabitants. It was time to usher them up to the roof to their untimely end as the FBI promised to have their helicopters there shortly.

On the desk behind him, the portable television they brought with them to monitor the newsfeed, flickered. He was barely paying it any attention as he was preparing for their final move when the anchor reported, “Oliver Queen,” upon hearing the name Edward turned towards the screen, “the Starling City police detective who’s been disrupting the terrorists plans is in Los Angeles visiting his wife, Nakatomi employee Felicity Smoak …” he tuned out the voice when a picture of the couple appeared on the screen. He inhaled sharply when he recognized the blonde standing next to the man he’d laid eyes on not long ago.

Enraged he swept the small TV off the desk and stormed over to the credenza littered with pictures. He lifted one, the man’s face was in profile, but Edward knew that stubborn jaw. The ultimate bargaining chip had been under his nose the entire time. He slammed the picture onto the desk before striding out to the area where they corralled the hostages; his gaze swept the assembled mass of bodies for the brazen women who’d made demands of him earlier in the evening. She was with the pregnant woman she’d been so concerned about, signaling his men, he quickly made his way over to her.

Hoisting her up unceremoniously, she let out a gasp and the couple sitting with her protested, he directed a gun at the redhead and they all instantly held their tongues. “Mrs. Queen,” she paled at his words. “How nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Gentlemen, see to our friends here,” he ordered before dragging the blonde off with him. She dragged her feet, slowing his progress, as the distress behind them bounced off the walls.

“Boss?” Theo questioned when they reached the vault.

Edward tossed the woman to the floor, “I think a police officer’s wife will come in handy,” he replied as two other men continued to stuff bonds into bags for transport.

On the floor his leverage righted herself. “After all your posturing, all your little speeches,” she said defiantly, “you're _nothing_ but a common thief.”

He stooped low to get into her face, her distaste for him written clearly across it. “I am an exceptional thief, Mrs. Queen. And since I’m moving up to kidnapping, you should be more polite,” he warned waving the gun in her face to make his point.

\---

A furious amount of continuous movement was happening behind Max as he continued his report on the bureau’s involvement. “Moments ago the FBI cut power to the entire grid from which Nakatomi Plaza draws power, cutting power to a quarter mile section of the city. Mayor Bellows’ office has already released a statement asserting that he did not authorize this measure, which has left over three thousand residences without electricity on this holiday eve. An agency expert indicated to KFLW that while this is a standard operating procedure, there is a channel for approval which apparently has been disregarded in this case.”

“There is speculation that the swift movement by the FBI once they arrived on scene is because various intelligence agencies regard Edward Fyers as a high value target. His capture and any subsequent information he would provide is seen as a boon to the intelligence community as a whole.”

Though he hated what he had to say next, Max knew it was necessary. What was going on in Starling City was a peripheral part of _his_ story, he knew he had the meat of it and nothing would distract his audience from the story _he_ was telling them. “Marrett Green of Starling City’s WEBG is reporting from outside the home of Moira Queen, mother of Detective Oliver Queen, where an impromptu vigil of friends and neighbors has begun. We,” though he thought ‘I’, “will of course continue to provide updates as they happen here at Nakatomi Plaza.”

\---

_“Tell her … tell her that she is remarkable and the best thing that ever happened to me.”_

In their last conversation he had had secured Diggle’s promise to find his wife, to give her that message and now taking in the wired roof – the inspiration to look there had been sparked by a comment Diggle had made after making him that pledge – his worst fears were confirmed. Fyers had no intention of letting anyone out of this building alive.

Everything he’d done, everything he’d risked, would be for naught if Fyers blew the roof. More so his entire world would shatter if Felicity was on the roof when it blew. He could not – _would not_ – allow that to happen.

He fought through two of Fyers men to get up to the roof. He didn’t have time to feel anything at ending their lives, he had to keep pressing forward, lives – Felicity’s life – depended on it. He started yelling the second he hit the outside stairs to the roof, calling out Felicity’s name, searching desperately for her in amongst the faces in the milling crowd. “You have to get off the roof,” he ordered, trying unsuccessfully to push the mass of bodies towards the stairwells.

The roar of incoming helicopters muted his instructions which he continued to repeat on rotation with calling out Felicity’s name. Weeding through the crowd, Oliver ran into Caitlin and Ronnie. “Felicity?” he queried hopefully. He figured if she would be with anyone it would be her redheaded friend.

Caitlin shook her head and over the sounds of rotating motors and whipping wind she yelled, “Fyers took her?” Oliver had to lean in close to hear her and his heart stopped upon her news.

“Where?”

“Vault,” Ronnie answered, “it’s on the thirtieth floor.”

Nodding his appreciation he told them, “You need to get everyone off the roof and out of the building.” He waited as Caitlin, wrapped in Ronnie’s arms, rushed towards the stairs. They managed to a get a few people to follow them, but as they disappeared down the steps it became clear to Oliver that the remaining crowd would need motivation to move. Out of options and tight on time, he fired the machine gun he picked up into the air. The flash and bang of gunshots got everyone racing towards the stairs.

It also drew the attention of men in the helicopters, who fired upon him. “I’m the good guy,” he hollered at them, though he knew it was useless. Diving for cover, he found himself too far away from the stairs for it be a viable option with a target on his back.

Behind him was friendly fire and in front of him the building edge. To his right was a fire hose. “Bad idea,” he told himself. A very bad idea, with little chance of success but there was no telling when Fyers would blow the roof and there was good chance that he’d could be shot before that happened. With a hard tug, Oliver began unraveling the hose from the spool attached to building.

It flowed through his bloody and sweaty fingers quickly. Once a good portion of it was loose he tied it around his waist. After pulling it tight, he spoke out loud, “I promise,” he said steeling himself for what he was about to do, “I will never even _think_ about going up into tall building again.” He then vaulted up onto the ledge of the building. Looking down on the police force and gathered spectators below, Oliver gulped at the distance. “Oh God. Please don’t let me die,” he pleaded as he leapt. His body met open air, bullets were whizzing by, as he began to drop; his shoulders were falling past the ledge he’d jumped from when the roof blew.

The force of it pushed out from the building as he continued his rapid descent. Remembering the man he pushed out the window earlier in the evening Oliver felt his body brace for impact with the ground. Instead, his body jerked and fell into the building with a hard thump.

Before he could get his bearings the hose dipped lower. He came to another halting stop. Pulling his knees up, Oliver slammed his feet into the window. The attempt was pointless, so he used his feet to push himself as far out from the building as he could get, and fired the machine gun at the building. It worked better than handgun as the glass splintered and he swung into building, landing haphazardly on the floor, slivers of glass imbedding themselves in his back.

Oliver exhaled a relieved breath. He needed a moment, just a moment, to gather himself; but he didn’t even get that before he felt himself being dragged backwards. He reached out blindly, trying to find something to anchor himself to … slipping closer to the edge, he realized that was not an viable option so he spun, using feet to brace himself on the window frame as he worked the hose from around his waist. He heard the nozzle click on the floor as it was pulled out the window and plummeted down to the concrete below.

There was no part of his body that wasn’t in pain; he was mentally and physically exhausted. The last thing he felt capable of doing was getting up, but Felicity’s bright smile flashed in mind’s eye. She needed him. Knowing that Oliver struggled to regain his feet, he was panting with the effort, but he persisted, hauling himself up right.

Once he was upright, he shuffled towards the discarded weapon. He was disheartened to find it empty. With no additional rounds he considered tossing it to the ground, but it could still come in handy, so he slung it over his arm and lumbered forward with one goal in mind: to save Felicity.

\---

He was in the middle of a live report when the roof of the building went. Max bit back an expletive. _Barely_. He painted with words the visual before him: fire shooting out, glass and stone raining down, the wheezing sound of the disabled helicopter engine and screech of metal hitting concrete. When the copter smacked into the ground another fireball burst out from it, scorching the area around the mangled vehicle.

He could barely hear Singh’s droll, “Looks like we need some new FBI guys,” over the cries and gasps of the onlookers. Max doubted his microphone captured the sentiment, which he thought was a shame, because it would have added to the color of the story and would make for some interesting follow-up. Without it on tape though, there was no way he’d be able to prove that the Deputy Chief had uttered the words.

Ned caught his attention, he was gesturing furiously towards the building’s entrance where ashen faces looked out on the chaos before them searching for a safe way out of the building. His voice rose excitedly, as he called out their appearance to his audience.

He kept the words flowing as he looked for the faces of Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak amongst the assembled hostages. Their fate would determine the overall tone his story.

\---

“You can stare down death with something to live for or not. Something to live for is better.” Diggle had shared those words with him earlier in the evening and as he made his way to the vault with a single handgun with only two bullets taped to his naked back and an empty machine gun hanging off his arm, he knew the man to be right.

When he found Fyers, he had his gun on Felicity, and one of his men was with him. The odds still were not in his favor, but he’d come so far, and he was so close to getting what he needed – Felicity safe, Fyers no longer a threat. “Fyers,” he yelled, gaining the attention of the trio as he lurched down the hallway.

“Cowboy,” he was greeted snidely, as Fyers yanked Felicity to him. He heard Felicity’s soft, “Oliver.” Her eyes which had been flaming with indignation went watery as she took in his condition.

Though they didn’t usually go for pet names he couldn’t help the “Hi, honey,” he offered her with a rueful smile. Her lips tipped up slightly. Seeing her bravery warmed his heart. Oliver knew he could rely on his wife to read him, to be ready to act when he gave her the signal.

“Touching. Lose the gun,” Fyers ordered. When Oliver hesitated Fyers’ henchman fingered his weapon, indicating his eagerness to fire on him.

“Easy,” he said, removing the machine gun strap from his arm, before tossing the weapon to the floor. As the terrorists’ gaze swept the gun, Oliver made a quick indication of what he needed Felicity to do. She nodded slightly, letting him know she understood his instructions as Fyers kicked the gun further away from him.

“This doesn’t end the way you want Mr. Queen,” he remarked as he ran his gun up Felicity’s arm, bringing it rest at her temple. He tapped her there lightly before aiming the barrel at him. “This time John Wayne does not walk off into the sunset with Grace Kelly.”

“That was Gary Cooper, asshole,” he spat back. Felicity read the signal he given her perfectly and threw her elbow into Fyers as she pushed back against him, steering him and the gun he aimed away from Oliver. He used the distraction to pull his gun and shoot the other armed man in the head before turning his attention back to Fyers. With Felicity still struggling with the man it was hard to aim. If they made a sudden movement he could hit her. He hollered her name and she tried her best to spin away from Fyers, but he still had a hand clamped over her wrist. Felicity did not let that deter her and after another few seconds of push and pull between them she managed to put enough distance between them for Oliver to fire.

The bullet hit Fyers in the chest; the impact of it forcing him backwards out the shattered window. Seeing Felicity being dragged with him horrified Oliver. He managed to grab her around her waist and their shoulders banged into the window frame side-by-side, but she was quickly being pulled down and forward.

Looking out the window he could see Fyers dangling from the building by her arm. He was struggling to raise the gun still clutched in his other hand up to fire at them. Oliver noticed the chunky bracelet that Fyers was using to help maintain his hold on Felicity. Reaching down, he fought with the clasp. Felicity’s whimper of pain and the ill-intent in Fyers eyes spurred him on and he finally bested the clasp.

The bracelet loosened on Felicity’s wrist. The slippage caused Fyers’ hold to slacken and Oliver pulled up on her arm. He saw the surprise flash across Fyers’ face when he realized that there was nothing there to hold him up. His descent only took seconds and Oliver had been unable to tuck Felicity back into the building before Fyers’ body met the ground below. Her felt her shudder in his arms at the sight, before she turned and buried her head in his chest.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. _We’re_ okay,” he murmured soothingly as he ran his hands up and down her back. He knew he was ruining her dress, but in the moment he knew neither of them cared about something as frivolous as that. They were finally in each other’s arms again, safe.

Oliver felt her arms snake around him and her fingers dig into his back. Though it hurt, he didn’t complain. He knew she needed to feel him as much as he needed to feel her. He could have stood there all night breathing her in, but the acidic smell of the smoke from the burning roof, got him moving. With Felicity tucked into his side they moved slowly to the stairwell.

“You’re sure you’re up to this?” she questioned taking in his abused body and the long staircase down.

“God yes, get me out of this building,” he pleaded, his tone light and humorous.

They made their way down slowly, with Felicity insisting on taking more of his weight. He was surprised how much of it her slight frame could handle, but that was his wife: surprisingly strong. When they finally reached the lobby, they were swarmed by paramedics, firemen, and policemen.

A paramedic tried to separate them to assess and treat his various wounds, but Oliver refused to let go of Felicity. She tried to convince him to get looked at, but he merely commandeered two blankets, wrapping one around her and the other around himself, before hauling her against him. “You can patch me up.”

She huffed out an exasperated, “Oliver. I’m a technological genius not a doctor.”

He let out a chuckle. “I just want you tonight Felicity. If you insist, I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow, but _please_ , tonight all I want – all I need – is you.”

Felicity acquiesced with a shake of her head. “If you have internal injuries I’m going to murder you,” she said softly, steering them towards exit. Debris was still drifting down around the building and there was an army of emergency response personnel working in the chaos around the plaza. In the midst of it all, Oliver made a familiar silhouette. “Diggle?”

“What?” Felicity asked.

His response was cut off by a sharp scream. Turning, Oliver saw Wintergreen emerge from underneath a blanket, gun in hand. He threw himself over Felicity and prepared himself to feel the hot tear of bullets. Gunfire reverberated through the air, but when fresh pain did not hit him, he looked up confused. He saw Diggle standing sidearm drawn, and followed the barrel of his gun to find Wintergreen down on the pavement.

Felicity helped him right himself and they made their way to over to Dig as he lowered and holstered his weapon. Knowing what it took for him to take the action Oliver clasped his shoulder. “Thank you,” he offered his gratitude roughly.

“I wasn’t about to let you have all the glory.” His breezy response caused Oliver to grin, a tad manically after everything he’d been through, and Dig smirked back.

“John Diggle, my wife Felicity Smoak,” he said pulling Felicity into their conversation.

“Queen,” she corrected. “Felicity _Queen_.”  She had reached out to offer John her hand to shake, but her words ignited him. Oliver cupped her face and crashed his lips down on hers, kissing like he had when they had first been reunited at the party – with all the love and passion he felt for her.


End file.
